Studies in Malik
by EccentricSpock
Summary: Collection of One-Shots from Malik's point of view. Hints/Will be Altair/Malik slash in some. AU's in others, it's simply a bunch of short one-shots practicing in his character. M for possibilities.


The soft sound of linen and metal was like the melody to his life. A soft eb and flow of activity, suppose to be unheard but in the eyes of a novice, they were silent as death. Hardly the case, but he could not deny their attempt at learning. The linen and metal would be joined by leather scraping; boots being put on, gauntlets buckled, spaulders snapped. Then the soft sound of silk, red as blood that flowed in rivers from their blades as they wound the cloth about their waist. A physical war paint, a splash of death against the pure ivory of their robes. Finally more leather; the wrapping of their knife belts, attachment of their swords, one pulls his gloves on, another readjusts his shoe. They're in, they're out, they're gone on their missions to douse feathers in vitae another day long, and all he could do was shut his eyes and listen to the silence assassin's left in their wake.

The silence was like the assassin himself; a heavy, ominous creature that made no sound, that targeted one lonesome soul and followed it wound their senses around it and waited. Perched in the rafters, beneath the floor, outside the window, behind the door, everywhere would the Silence be, waiting. Waiting for their heartbeat to slow, for their breath to come to a close. Waiting for their prey to be in that one position in that one span of time it knew would be optimal; only then would it's nostrils flare, would the adrenaline arch across their body like a drug and bare down upon the hopeless, the ended and the dead. He could feel it, the cold blade of the Silence make blood lilies across his neck. He could feel a blade make home in his chest, in his gullet. Across his hands, hand, the single one remaining. The Silence's spell was broken in that thought, that one moment it would misstep and he closed his fingers around the air and screamed. Screamed at the feeling of the limb that he no longer had closing to mimic it's lone brother, screamed at the silence the bureau had for his as company, screamed for the empty bed down the hall that once held the comforting warmth of the one thing he had in this world, screamed for the sky that boy would never be able to see, screamed for the smile Ihe/I would never be able to see, the laugh he could never here, the robin's egg of the boy's eyes, the careless way he cleaned his weaponry. He screamed for himself, for his brother, and for blood.

The sound of voices didn't reach him, even as his throat ran raw with his blood lust. The rage came over his eyes like the silk splash of death he used to wear about his waist, blinding him from the nursemaids and the doctor who'd come to soothe an injured animal. Hands on him made him thrash, he could feel the iron cage of sedation coming before the needle even reached his flesh, his only remaining arm. The phantom limb lashed out without purchase, the nursemaids held no worry for a weapon that was no longer there. The prick of the needle, the cool wash of drugged sleep, quiet voices of reassurance were demons in his mind, laughing, mocking and coaxing him into a forced sleep full of empty blackness and one splash of white, one cocky, arrogant, foolish splash of white he could not wrap his fingers around the neck of, because here, in his mind, in his hell, he did not even exist.

Weeks before a normal man could, he was sitting upright and watching the world of the courtyard out of the window. A novice fell through the crack in the roof and hit the ground in a startled heap, stood up and brushed himself off, but not before looking around to assure himself no one had seen his misstep. Malik snorted softly, a bitter, humorless noise, and let his broken mind piece together a path or his eyes to follow. Again he glazed past the soup and bread before him on his lap, set there against his will. Who was he to deny a nursemaid leeway with his being? An infidel, a useless, dredge of society that was crippled beyond repair. His mind gone with his arm, his life gone with his brother's. Instead of food his eyes found literature, a scroll, two left on his own little side table. Ne was cracked open, the last few words of a tale he'd long since memorized. The other he did not recognize and his curiosity writhed about and past the wave of self pity he did not claim, to knit his brothers together. When had that gotten there? Who had brought it? He reached for it, attempted to, though no limb extended. Instead, without much thought to it he twisted, allowing his right had to hover above the paper. There was a cough. Immediately, every inch of his seared with alert nerves, skin buzzing. By the foot of the bed, standing, tall, silent. The red nearly blinded him again and he turned his head to find what he did not wish to see, an eagle of a man with his sharp eyes hidden beneath the pointed cowl. Dull nails bit half-moons into his palm as he grit his teeth.

"And what do I owe the pleasure?" The man almost flinched, the slight twitch of his fingers satisfying Malik to an extent and he finally let himself take up the scroll. "Surely not a worried visit from the Master's star pupil. No, not so many moons after he had last seen me. A messenger, then? How one moves up in the world so quickly."

"Brother-"

"Do not call me that," Again, he let his eyes flicker to the devil himself, watching with hardly contained wrath as the demon set himself on a conveniently placed stool. "Do not address me as brother, I boast no more claim to you than I do a leper."

"Malik, then," Altair was watching him with a hawk, despite his eyes being hidden. Malik let himself huff a breath, looking back down into his lap where he'd begun to unravel the scroll. When no more was said, Malik felt need to read the words he was sure Altair had already read, aloud.

"Congratulations," the mirth was fake. A mocking, joyous voice Malik barely was able to let pass his lips. "Though your sacrifices were great, your accomplishments were ar greater" No, Malik thought. No they weren't. What sort of a letter would this be? Again, curiously brought his brows together and silenced his tongue. Practiced eyes danced across the page, one line. Two. Three. Altair observed that the further down the scroll Malik's eyes darted, the more white of his teeth his grimace began to show. Malik did not notice, the tunnel of black ebbing out almost the entirety of the world. 'Promotion.' 'Jerusalem.' 'Elevated to status.' 'Dai.' A promotion? A promotion to a useless nothing that drew maps behind a desk all day? The hand that remained, a bitter thought, began to shake despite his desire for it to remain silent. "Dai," he seethed, looking up with malice laced between every nerve ending. But, of course, Altair was gone. In his place was a neat folding of linens, atop them a coat Malik would later put on like one would dress for their own casket. Blue as the night sky, rich as the men Malik had dreamed of felling, and a symbol of Malik's own mortality.


End file.
